But now, I had to face the part I’d been avoiding, the truth about what it really means for me to be in the closet and for Hannah to have to limit herself as a condition of loving me.
Chapter Twenty-FiveNOW
Instead of attending Sunshine Saints, this Sunday we drive out to my grandma’s house for her birthday barbeque. I’m happy for the excuse to avoid Mrs. Patricia and for the chance to see Momma. Now that I’ve outgrown summers at her house, I don’t get to hang out with her as much as I used to. Plus, her birthday is the unofficial kickoff to the holiday season for the Joneses. My aunts, uncles, and cousins always come out for her birthday barbeque, making it one of the few times of the year when we all are together.
And with my extended family waiting inside, Kristen’s advice from yesterday loops in my head.
Over a game of minigolf at Putter’s Paradise, Kristen, Hannah, and I finally hung out as our real selves—no hiding who Hannah really is to me. We had fun, and by the end of the game, they were joking with and teasing each other as if they’d been friends from the start.
Before we left, Kris dropped a suggestion I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. If I want to know what my parents thinkabout people like me, why not just ask? Not outright, but to test the waters before coming out for real. Slip something into conversation, see how they react.
Which is what I’m going to try today.
I get to the door first and use the secret knock. Momma created it so that she could know if it was my dad dropping me off on those summer mornings since she hated running into delivery drivers in her house dress.
Within seconds, Momma swings open the door, a hand already on her hip. “Child, you look like God smacked you across the face about five times last night.”
“What?”
“You don’t look rested,” Momma says, holding me by the shoulders. She pulls me close, hugging me. I’m enveloped in her familiar vanilla-jasmine smell, tinged with lemon from the fresh lemonade she makes when the family gets together. With my chin resting in the crook between her neck and shoulder, I feel how sticky her skin is with lotion, and her warmth makes me relax. Grandmas can do that, cut through your troubles with a hug, a long stare, or a good shake of the shoulders.
“Missed you too, Momma,” I say, laughing a little.
She pushes me out to arm’s length again and pulls on one of my curls, coiling it around her finger.
“Missed you, girlie,” she says, smiling and tilting her chin down so she can see me over her smudged lenses. “Have you eaten?” she asks, shifting into a more serious tone. “Clark, do you feed the darn child?” She looks past me at my dad.
“Wejustgot here—”
“Iaskeda question. Boy, get over here and give your mama a hug. I’m gettin’ too old,” she says, holding out her arms.
Dad puts down the bags of food he’s holding and steps into an embrace. With their arms wrapped around each other, they rock back and forth to music only they can hear. After my mom gets a hug, we all file into Momma’s house, the screen door banging shut behind us.
Momma’s birthday always falls on the last good weekend of the year. Even though it’s autumn and the air has already turned crisp, September holds a number of warm days that sometimes sporadically seep into October. But in terms of hot weekends where we can leave the screen door cracked to let warm air into the house, where we can sit outside on Momma’s patio in plastic lawn chairs at the folding tables my uncle rents just for the occasion, Momma’s birthday is the lastcookoutkind of weekend of the year.
Dad makes a beeline through the kitchen to the back patio with his bag of assorted hot dogs, burgers, and sausages. When the back door flies open, I can already smell smoke from the grill and hear my uncle talking to whatever other relatives are already outside.
“Do you need anything from me?” Mom asks, setting her bag on the table next to the one I had been carrying.
“I’m good,” I say, already unloading my container of homemade espresso buttercream frosting and the organic cocoa powder we ordered online.
“You go on out there, Vey,” Momma insists, using a hand onher back to steer her toward the back door. “You already know we’ve got it covered in here.”
“I was just making sure,” Mom says, laughing to herself when a cup of lemonade is thrust into her hand from the edge of the kitchen counter just as Aunt Clarissa pulls open the screen door.
“I was lookin’ for you!” she squeals, immediately leaning in to hug my mom.
Mom and Aunt Clarissa go back outside, my aunt already talking a mile a minute, either telling Mom a story she heard at her salon or spinning the latest piece of gossip from her church. The screen door claps shut, but Momma keeps the red wooden door propped open, allowing the sound of their voices and the smell of searing beef to seep into the kitchen.
We find a comfortable silence, Momma helping me gather all the baking supplies I need to make her mocha cake before sitting down with a bag of haricots verts to trim the ends off. The way they snap every time she cuts through them with the paring knife means they’re gonna be crisp and crunchy, even once they’re cooked.
I mix my dry ingredients in one bowl and my wet ones in another, adding them together gradually and making sure the batter stays smooth. The smell of chocolate and espresso takes over the kitchen and I can’t resist dipping a finger in to taste.
“Ah—ah,” Momma says, catching me when I’m about to dip a clean finger in for a second helping. “Just to taste test, remember? You want to leave enough for everyone else.”
I shake my head as I wipe my hand on a dish towel. Her syrupy-sweet smile slithers across her face though, and she standsup and dips her own finger into the smooth batter, the dark, rich chocolate dripping back into the bowl before she finally brings a taste to her own mouth.
“Better every year,” she sings, eyes closed as she savors the flavor. “So, tell me what you’ve got goin’ on these days.” She starts mixing deep green olive oil with an assortment of fragrant herbs.